


The Power of a Bard’s Love

by Arvari



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blink And You Miss It Geraskefer, Curse Breaking, Curses, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Female Valdo Marx, Fluff and Angst, Geralt Nearly Dies Because He Is Just So Stupid, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, True Love's Kiss, Valdo Marx Is Actually Nice In This One, Yennefer Is So Done With Them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:34:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28194051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arvari/pseuds/Arvari
Summary: “Damn. What happened?” Jaskier asks as Geralt starts undressing. “Are you injured?”“No. Just…” Geralt bites his lower lip.“Just what?” Jaskier says and Geralt can almost hear him frown. “Geralt. Talk.”“Cursed,” Geralt murmurs.“Excuse me? You know, some of us don’t have supernaturally good hearing, could you say it a little louder?”“I’m cursed, damn you!” Geralt growls.“Oh. I mean… Wait, what? How? What’s happening to you? How do we break it?”“We don’t. It’s…” Geralt sits down on the bed and closes his eyes. His limbs feel heavy, so heavy that he doesn’t even know if he’ll ever be able to stand back up.He feels Jaskier’s hand on the small of his back and relaxes into the touch.“Talk to me, Geralt, please.”After a hunt gone wrong, Geralt has precisely one year to find and kiss his one true love. Jaskier is more than willing to help - if only Geralt would let him...
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 8
Kudos: 264





	The Power of a Bard’s Love

Geralt opens the door and sneaks into their shared room in an inn, expecting Jaskier to be fast asleep. It’s the middle of the night, after all. To be honest, he desperately _wants_ Jaskier to be fast asleep. He doesn’t have the energy to explain… certain things to him.

Which, of course, means that the second he closes the door, he hears the rustle of a blanket and sees Jaskier sit up in the darkness.

“Oh, thank fuck,” the bard mutters. “I was getting really afraid. Where the hell have you been so long? You said it was an easy contract!”

“I thought it would be,” Geralt sighs, letting his sword fall from his shoulder. “Wasn’t.”

“Damn. What happened?” Jaskier asks as Geralt starts undressing. “Are you injured?”

“No. Just…” Geralt bites his lower lip.

“Just _what_?” Jaskier says and Geralt can almost _hear_ him frown. “Geralt. Talk.”

“Cursed,” Geralt murmurs.

“Excuse me? You know, some of us don’t have supernaturally good hearing, could you say it a _little_ louder?”

“I’m cursed, damn you!” Geralt growls.

“Oh. I mean… Wait, what? How? What’s happening to you? How do we break it?”

“ _We_ don’t. It’s…” Geralt sits down on the bed and closes his eyes. His limbs feel heavy, so heavy that he doesn’t even know if he’ll ever be able to stand back up.

He feels Jaskier’s hand on the small of his back and relaxes into the touch.

“Talk to me, Geralt, please.”

“I have one year to find and kiss my one true love,” Geralt chuckles.

“Your… What? What if you don’t?”

“Jaskier.”

“ _Geralt_.”

The bard starts to remove his armor and Geralt sighs, glad that he doesn’t have to do it himself. He never thought he’d trust another person enough to let them undress him, and yet, here he is, melting into his friend’s familiar touch.

“I die,” he whispers after a while. “If I don’t find my true love, I die.”

“Mhm,” Jaskier hums. “You have any idea where she is?”

“She?” Geralt blinks.

“Yennefer, of course. Let’s face it, there is no way she _isn’t_ your only one. She’s probably not gonna forgive you as easily as I did, I mean, after the whole mountain incident, but I suppose you could convince her to give you a single kiss, at least. A kiss can’t hurt, right?”

“You’re babbling, Jaskier.”

“Am I? I’m so sorry, but you just told me you’re about to _die_ if we don’t find your angry ex as soon as possible–”

“In a _year_. We have time. Calm down. Please. You’re making me nervous.”

“I’m just trying to–”

“I know. But we can come up with a plan tomorrow. I don’t want to think about it today. I want to sleep.”

“Right,” Jaskier nodded. “But don’t you think you can run away from this like you run away from everything. You can’t.”

“Yes, Jaskier. I know.”

  


It takes them precisely two weeks and five days to find Yennefer. It’s actually _Jaskier_ who finds her, and Geralt doesn’t have any idea how he did it. Even if the Witcher tried, he couldn’t find her _so_ fast.

But here they were, standing at her doorstep in a town so small Geralt didn’t even bother to remember its name.

Jaskier takes the lead before Geralt can open his mouth, explains the whole situation to the momentarily stunned mage and basically ushers the two of them together into the bedroom before either of them manages to say a single word of protest.

“Hm,” Geralt hums as the key turns in the keyhole from the outside.

“Was this your idea? Or his?” Yennefer asks with a slight incline of her head towards the door.

“I know you’re not my true love,” Geralt shrugs.

“Why not stop him then?”

“I’d rather try stopping an avalanche,” he smirks and sits on the bed. “Besides, can’t hurt to try.”

“And you think that after _everything_ you’ve done, I’m just gonna let you fuck me?” she asks, lifting an eyebrow.

“Jaskier thinks that all I need to do is apologize. Honestly, I think it’s bullshit, but…”

“Well,” she says and crosses her arms. “It can’t hurt to try.”

  


“It’s not that I don’t love you,” Geralt murmurs sleepily as they lay naked on the bed together. “I do. It’s just…”

“True love requires free will,” Yennefer nods. “And I think we’ll be much better off as friends who occasionally like to fuck.”

“Could you check? Just in case.”

She reaches out, touches his temple and shuts her eyes briefly.

“Cursed. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. To be honest, it’s nice to have a notice this long. Much better than to die in some monster’s claws during a hunt gone wrong.”

“You’re not planning on trying to find… the one?”

“No,” Geralt sighs. “Don’t tell Jaskier, though. I’ll tell him that it worked. That I’m saved.”

“Only to drop dead in a year’s time? You know I don’t particularly like the bard, but he doesn’t deserve this.”

“He won’t be with me when I… He won’t be with me.”

“It’s not _fair_ , Geralt.”

“Yeah. Life isn’t exactly fair, Yen. I thought you knew.”

  


It seems to Geralt that time flies much faster now that he knows he only has limited amount of it. The curse thing happened in spring, and before Geralt knows, it’s nearly winter and he’s on his way to Kaer Morhen. He was tempted to invite Jaskier to spend the winter with him, but the bard would immediately know something was wrong – and that’s the last thing Geralt wants.

He arrives last, greets his brothers…

He’s not planning on telling them the truth, but things rarely go according to his plans. And so he blurts it out one evening and Lambert nearly chokes on his cheap vodka.

“You’re gonna _what_?!” he wheezes.

Geralt shrugs.

“What are you doing here, then?” Eskel frowns. “You should be searching for that… true love.”

“ _Searching_?” Lambert snorts. “The fucker doesn’t need to search, he just needs to grow some balls and fuck his true love into oblivion!”

“It’s not Yennefer,” Geralt murmurs. “I’ve tried that.”

“No shit. We both know it’s that bard of yours.”

“It’s not,” Geralt says, taking the bottle of vodka from Lambert’s hand. “He doesn’t love me back. He never will.”

“Has he _told_ you that?” Eskel asks.

“Didn’t need to. Witchers don’t get to love. And if we do, we are never loved back. It’s just how things are.”

“That’s _utter_ bullshit, dear Geralt,” Lambert chuckles. “Aiden and I–”

“Who?” Geralt blinks. “Who the fuck is Aiden?”

“Oh,” Lambert mutters, stealing the bottle back. “Shit.”

  


“And of _course_ it lifted the curse. Of fucking _course_!” Jaskier mumbles drunkenly, resting his chin on his hand.

  


The dark-haired woman sitting opposite him nods solemnly and orders more drinks.

“Weird,” she murmurs. “I could have sworn _you_ were his true love.”

“Bollocks. Pure bollocks,” Jaskier sighs. “He’s _mine_ , but I’m not his.”

“That’s not how this works, though.”

“And what do you know about true love, Valdo?”

“Enough to know… Thank you, dear,” she smiles at the barmaid and winks. Jaskier groans.

“Could you not flirt with _every_ woman you meet?!”

“Better than you flirting with every _person_ you meet, human or not.”

“True love, Valdo. Speak.”

“The thing is,” Valdo says, tilting her head, “that true love is recep… reco… Fuck. He must always love you back. Ergo, if the curse was lifted by him sleeping with the mage, he is not your true love. And if he _is_ , then you are his, and then the curse wasn’t lifted.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier hums.

“Hmm? My dear, are you turning into that Witcher of yours?” Valdo laughs.

“No,” Jaskier sighs, downing his drink. “Ugh. Just thinking where the hell am I going to find another true love.”

“Oh, dear,” Val says and shakes her head. “Well, I know where _I_ am going to find my true love for tonight. If you’ll excuse me…”

“Sure, sure!” Jaskier shouts when Valdo rises to her feet, not even waiting for his answer. “Please leave me. I love drinking alone! Oh, shit, what did I do to deserve such horrible friends…”

  


The winter without Jaskier seemed to drag on forever. Geralt missed his bard – missed him more than he would ever had thought.

That’s why, when the spring comes, he finds himself on his way to their usual meeting spot, even though during winter he promised himself time and time again that he wouldn’t, that he would just take some other route and never see his bard again.

He will, inevitably, die in a few weeks, he tells himself even as he passes the first houses of a tiny town where Jaskier is undoubtedly already waiting. He should just turn Roach around and leave. Spare Jaskier’s feelings. The bard will hate him for not coming, of course. But perhaps… Perhaps it won’t hurt as much when he hears about Geralt’s death, then.

And Geralt, of course, won’t have to explain to him why he lied about being cured.

The dilemma is solved within a few seconds when Geralt sees the bard himself running towards him at high speed, his lute case and his bag swinging on his shoulder, his hair ruffled and his doublet _and_ chemise undone.

He beams when he sees Geralt, comes to a stop by his side and thrusts the bag and the lute case into the Witcher’s hand.

“Oh, Geralt, thank the gods,” he mutters, already scrambling up behind the Witcher. “We need to leave. Right now. Don’t ask any questions.”

Just then, Geralt sees several armed men heading towards them, shouting.

“Let me guess,” he chuckles. “The mayor’s daughter?”

“ _And_ his son,” Jaskier says, takes his bags back and wraps his arms around Geralt’s torso. “Nice to see you, by the way.”

“Hm,” Geralt smiles as he turns Roach around. “Nice to see you too, bard.”

  


It takes Geralt a few days, but in the end, he does tell Jaskier the truth. He does it because he finds the alternative – quietly sneaking away to die while the bard’s asleep – unbearable.

Jaskier… Doesn’t take it well. There is a lot of yelling involved. And a lot of swearing. Geralt doesn’t even try to keep count of how many times the word ‘idiot’ is used. It’s… well, a lot.

“How much time do we have left, then?” Jaskier asks when he finally calms down.

“Thirty-seven days,” Geralt sighs. “On the final day, I have until the sun sets.”

“Okay,” Jaskier nods. “I want to go to the coast.”

“The coast? But… why?”

“You don’t need to know. You owe me, Geralt. For all the lies. So we’re going.”

Geralt just nods. He knows Jaskier is right.

And if this is the very last thing the Witcher can do for him… then so be it.

  


Just as it did last year, the time flies when Geralt’s with Jaskier. The bard is mad at him, Geralt knows, but he never lets it show. He does his best to make Geralt’s final weeks as good as possible – and he succeeds. They travel together, laugh together, and, when they finally reach the coast, they even _live_ together, in a tiny house Jaskier buys with all the money he earned during the winter.

It’s good. It’s great. And way, way too soon… it’s over.

Before the Witcher knows, his final day has arrived.

They are sitting on a cliff, side by side, and the sun is just beginning to set over the sea.

“Perhaps…” Jaskier whispers. “Perhaps you’re wrong. Perhaps the curse is already broken.”

“It isn’t,” Geralt mutters, staring at the sun. “I can feel it. It’s like… the sand in an hourglass. I can _feel_ it running out.”

The sky is bright red. It would have been beautiful – if it didn’t herald the very last moments of the Witcher’s life.

“You’re just… so _stupid_ ,” Jaskier says, clearly frustrated. “You should have said something. We could have…”

“What? Fucked our way through all the brothels of the Continent in search of someone who would be willing to love me back?” Geralt smirks. “That’s why I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want that.”

“We could have _tried_!” Jaskier groans.

“I just wanted everything to be… normal. You. Me. The Path. Monsters. You singing in taverns. Running away from cuckolded husbands. And wives,” he chuckles. “I wanted to spend my last year with you.”

Jaskier sighs, tears his eyes away from the sunset and looks at Geralt instead.

“Are you scared?” he asks.

“Not scared,” Geralt says. “But I wish I had more time.”

“If it helps, I also wish you had more time.”

Geralt turns his head and his eyes meet Jaskier’s.

“I know,” he whispers.

“Why did you say no when I…” Jaskier takes a deep breath and his eyes flit to Geralt’s lips. “When I said we could go to the town and find you a whore you could fuck before you drop dead? Surely it would have been much more pleasant than sitting here with me and counting the seconds you have left.”

“I…” Geralt says, almost inaudibly. From the corner of his eyes, he sees the sun’s almost down. “I don’t want some random whore. I want you. Always you.”

He hears the words leave his mouth but he doesn’t regret what he said, even as he sees Jaskier’s eyes go wide and hears the bard’s breath hitch in his throat. He is already almost dead. He won’t have to deal with Jaskier’s inevitable rejection.

And then he feels Jaskier’s lips press against his in a passionate kiss. Geralt moans, wraps his arm around Jaskier’s waist and kisses him back, just as passionately.

His heart is beating faster than it has been in years, perhaps decades. He can feel his own hands trembling.

_Oh, yes_ , he thinks as he is being lowered to the ground until his back touch the grass and Jaskier is all over him. _This is it. This is how I want to die_.

The moment stretches on and on, as if time itself decided to slow down so Geralt could truly enjoy the thing he’s been waiting for… well, since he met the bard all those years ago, probably.

But then Jaskier pulls away, way, way too soon, and he stares at Geralt with his eyes wide, breathing heavily, before he turns his head towards the horizon.

The very, very dark horizon.

“Geralt,” he whispers. “The sun is down.”

It takes a few seconds before Geralt fully registers his words.

The sun _is_ down, there is no doubt about it. The sun is down. He is alive. The horrible feeling of sand in his hourglass running out is… gone.

The curse is lifted. He’s sure of it.

And there is only one explanation.

“Oh,” he says then. “Oh, fuck. Lambert will never let me hear the end of this.”

Jaskier buries his face in his shoulder and groans.

“Tell me about it. Valdo Marx is gonna write a _play_ about us. And her plays are _horrible_ , Geralt!”

“Fantastic,” says a woman’s voice behind them. “I can’t wait to see it.”

They both turn their heads towards the owner of the voice. A little magical light flares up, but neither of the men needs it. They’d know her anywhere.

“Yen,” Geralt murmurs. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, you were supposed to be dead already,” the mage smiles. “I came to give the bard some moral support. And help him bury your body.”

“That’s… nice?” Geralt frowns.

“I was going to dump your stupid ass into the sea,” she shrugs.

“Not very nice,” Jaskier remarks. “But I would have helped.”

“Hey!” Geralt frowns. “I’m right here, you know? Alive.”

Jaskier, who’s still lying on top of the Witcher, looks down into a pair of yellow eyes and smiles. “Don’t worry, love. I’m aware. _But_ you lied to me about the curse being lifted. No nice funerals for naughty Witchers.”

“You’re telling me you wouldn’t have mourned?”

“I would have, of course. Right after kicking your lifeless body down from the cliff.”

“Oh, Jaskier,” Yennefer laughs. “I’m starting to like you more and more.”

“And I’m starting to like this whole situation less and less,” Geralt growls. “Yen, as you can see, I’m alive, Jaskier doesn’t need any moral support, so could you just, you know… Leave? Because I’ve got a bard to fuck.”

“If you think he’s going to let you be on top,” she smirks, already opening a portal, “I believe you will find that you are sorely mistaken.”

“Correct,” Jaskier giggles, pressing his lips against Geralt’s throat.

“See?” Yennefer smiles. “Enjoy your night, Geralt. And see you around. Both of you.”

“Wait! What do you mean–“ Geralt starts, but the portal is already closing behind the mage.

And when Geralt feels Jaskier’s teeth gently dig into the skin just above his collarbone, he can’t bring himself to care about anything else.

  


A red-haired Witcher is sitting on the wall of Kaer Morhen, staring at the snow-covered trail below him. He has been sitting like this for quite a few hours, much to the dismay of another Witcher – a slim, blond and extremely bored one.

“Lambs,” the blond sighs. “I hate to tell you, but I don’t think he’s coming.”

“Shut up, Aiden,” Lambert murmurs. “And don’t fucking call me _Lambs_.”

“Sorry, honey.”

Lambert only hums, which means he absolutely isn’t listening – ha hates being called _honey_ even more than being called _Lambs_.

Aiden looks down at the courtyard and stays quiet. There are times when trying to talk to Lambert is useless – and this is one of them. All he needs to do is wait until the ginger starts talking himself.

Which he does, a little while later.

“If he’s alive, he’s coming,” he says quietly. “The snow came early this year, but I’m sure he’s gonna get here somehow.”

“Is that why Vesemir’s nowhere to be found and Eskel has been trying to drink himself into oblivion ever since the morning?”

“They don’t think he’s alive. I do,” Lambert shrugs.

“You heard what people say. A Witcher and a bard went to the coast and never came back.”

“Yeah, but nobody said one of them _died_ there,” Lambert growls.

“That doesn’t make sense, love.”

“I know. But he’s my brother. I’m not trying to make sense, I just… _hope_.”

“Right. Of course,” Aiden nods. Lambert is still staring at the path towards Kaer Morhen, but nothing is moving there.

Aiden bites his lower lip, looks back at the courtyard… And blinks.

“Uhm… Lambs?” he says.

“What did I just say?!” Lambert growls.

“Lamby,” Aiden says, a little more urgently.

“Don’t even fucking think about it.”

“Melitele’s tits,” Aiden smirks. “Should I just call you Your Royal Majesty or something?”

“ _Lambert_ is enough, you know.”

“Fine. Lambert,” Aiden says, rolling his eyes.

“What?” Lambert asks.

“You said your brother had white hair, right?”

“Yeah. Something about mutations gone wrong.”

“And he had a mage and a bard?”

“A bard traveled with him and he slept with a mage, right.”

“Black clothes?”

“Why are you asking all those questions?”

Aiden shrugs, still looking down at the courtyard.

“And it seems that he really, really hates portals?” the blond grins.

Lambert’s eyes go wide as he moves closer to Aiden to take a look.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me…”

  


The first thing Geralt does when he stumbles through the portal is checking that he still owns two legs. Then two hands. One neck. One head.

He knows he probably wouldn’t be checking anything if he _didn’t_ have a head, but that doesn’t stop him.

“You forgot your cock,” Jaskier’s highly amused voice says. “You see, I’m fine with you being one-legged, but cockless? Never.”

“Don’t worry, bard, I took extra care to bring his cock along,” Yennefer replies. “It would truly be a terrible shame to lose it.”

“You think you’re _so_ amusing, don’t you?” Geralt sighs before he drops to his knees and kisses the ground. “But I’m safe. Thank Melitele, I’m fucking safe.”

“And they say _I_ am dramatic,” Jaskier says. “And you should be thanking Yen, not Melitele.”

“Fuck off, bard!” Geralt growls.

“So grumpy,” Jaskier snorts. “It’s not my fault that the winter came a bit early this year, is it?”

Geralt raises his head to glower at his lover.

“And who felt the need to go to Oxenfurt and brag to Valdo Marx about getting his Witcher? And who then decided to stay for _three weeks_ to see the first showing of her new play _The Power of a Bard’s Love_?”

“Come on, she managed to write _and_ rehearse it in those three weeks, just for me!”

“It could have been two, if you hadn’t spent a week trying to cast a perfect Geralt.”

“It was Gerard, actually. And the actors she picked simply weren’t able to convey your brooding grumpiness. I _had_ to step in!”

“I agree,” Yennefer smiles. “That Gerard was spot on.”

“I hate you. Both of you.”

“No, you don’t,” she winks. “All right, boys. I will be on my way. Enjoy the winter in a drafty old castle. Geralt, no excessive drinking. Jaskier, do try not to spread your legs for everyone here.”

“Can’t make any promises,” Jaskier shrugs.

“Take care of Roach,” Geralt grunts.

“Of course I will, you idiot,” she rolls her eyes, giving him a quick kiss on the lips. “I’ll be seeing you in spring.”

Geralt hums as Jaskier steps closer, grins and presses his lips against the mage’s.

“I do hope you’ll stop by during the winter, too,” he murmurs. “We’re gonna miss you.”

“I’m sure you will,” she smiles and opens a portal. “Goodbye, boys.”

She steps in and the portal closes right behind her. Geralt sighs, wraps his arm around Jaskier’s waist a pulls the bard closer.

“Just the two of us, then,” he says. “Welcome to Kaer Morhen, bard. I hope the reality is even worse than you imagined. Please do remember that I told you to stay in Oxenfurt.”

“Without you? Never, love,” Jaskier says, pressing his lips against Geralt’s throat. “It would have been a terribly long winter.”

Just as Geralt is about to reply, they hear a yell from above them that is a perfectly equal mix between angry and delighted.

“You fucking piece of selkiemore shit! Don’t you dare move! I’m coming for you and I’m gonna fucking _kill you_!”

“That was my brother Lambert,” Geralt notes without even bothering to look up.

“I see,” Jaskier nods. “So it _is_ going to be a long winter…”


End file.
